Last night as I was dropping off to sleep, I was thinking about dolls—specifically, what it is about them that fascinates me so. This is almost a primal attachment because it's has been with me ever since I can remember.
In many of the pictures of me as a little girl, I’m holding a carefully wrapped doll, and somewhere in the Bastille that our crawl space has become, I have three of my favorites packed away—Posey, Miss Canada and Elaine. Sometime I must unearth them and take photos.
But in the meantime, I’m ruminating about why I love dolls. I don’t think it’s an extension of the female baby barometer. I mean, I like babies but I don’t get all squooshy inside when I see one. And I was never a girly girl who kept her dolls in pristine condition; mine were always well used.
So what is it then? I’ve come to the semi-conclusion that dolls must be iconic for me because they seem to be the expression of something inside me. Now—if I could just figure out what that something actually is …